


Two Paths

by ThatSeance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Analysis, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Manipulation, Melancholy, Metaphors, Morally Ambiguous Character, flowery language, it's not as hopeless as it sounds I swear, the most canon divergent part of this fic is how Harry is slightly perceptive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSeance/pseuds/ThatSeance
Summary: Harry Potter and Voldemort are two sides of the same coin, similar in many ways that ultimately make them different. A look into how someone's choices and ideas shape who they become.(A character study for Harry Potter and Voldemort and their obviously comparable lives).





	Two Paths

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for clicking on this fic. It's been in the works for at least 4 months now, though not from the extensive length or difficulty. I'm glad I've finally finished it up, and I hope it is at least somewhat enjoyable!

Harry Potter was seven years old when he realized how truly unfair his living situation was. It wasn't a sudden revelation. He had been slowly putting the pieces together, like the puzzles the Dursley's had gotten for Dudley which had gotten thrown to the side the minute he realized it involved effort. It took a while for the big picture to come into focus. Little things; how other parents came to pick up their children, how they spoke to them with kind words, how they appreciated their children's achievements. How they didn't yell at them for getting higher grades than their siblings, or for being too freakish. It was disconcerting. Harry hadn't realized he was in such a haze until he dropped the plates he was drying. His heartbeat flared up and he squeezed his eyes shut, fear shooting through him, waiting for the inevitable crash and yelling and lack of food for the next few days, but it never came. He slowly peeled his eyes open, and to his amazement, the plates were hovering in midair, a few inches above the ground. 

Tom Riddle was seven years old when he was first hit by one of the matrons at Wool's Orphanage. He had long since known of his less than satisfactory situation; something in his gut told him that wasn't how he was meant to live. But he'd been terrorizing the other children in the orphanage for as long as he could remember, smirking at the unsettled workers at the orphanage. Some new kid, Tommy, he hated that name, and the basic fear tactics, but the kid seemed to have taken it too personally, and suddenly the kid was blabbing to the matrons and crying at the top of his lungs. It was annoying. Tom found himself wanting the peace and quiet of his room, and almost made it to the doorway, when one of the matrons- Janet, Jennifer, he never really bothered with their names- stalked up to him and backhanded Tom across the face. Anger flared up in his chest, burning from his heart to his fingertips. How dare she hit him? The deafening silence was interrupted by the shattering of a light, and then another, and with that distraction, Tom slipped into his room, his hands curled into fists.

Harry Potter was eleven years old when a kind man barged into the rickety house on the sea and told him that he was more than he could have imagined. At first, he hadn't believed the man with the overgrown beard and pink umbrella. Him, a wizard? But the events of the past cropped up in his mind, like a film reel, all the times he had done inexplicable things. Excitement coursed through his veins. He, Harry Potter, was a wizard, and he would get to go to a school away from the Dursleys, and maybe, just maybe, he could learn about who he truly was.

Tom Riddle was eleven years old when an old man with an auburn mess of hair and the beginnings of an impressive beard strode into his life with a twinkle in his eye. He told Riddle that he had magical abilities- which, while Riddle had never put the word "magic" to it, had known since before he could remember- and there was Hogwarts awaiting his arrival. Hogwarts. A magical school, for special people, like him. Dumbledore warned him against his habits against the other orphanage children, that his behavior wouldn't be tolerated, but Riddle was sure- if that's what it took to go to Hogwarts, that's what he'd do- to an extent, anyways.

Harry Potter was eleven years old when he watched the platform slowly fade away beneath the sound of the trains wheels grinding against the tracks below. The compartment shook, just slightly, and Harry found himself struck with amazement. He really was leaving to go to a magical school- and he was going to learn magic. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such an event like this to be real. He was only disrupted from his thoughts when he heard the compartment slide open and the red-haired kid from the platform appeared in the doorway. He had an awkward but goofy grin on his face, which accentuated the bright freckles across his cheeks. "Excuse me, do you mind? Everywhere else is full."

Tom Riddle was eleven years old when he let his eyes drift to the compartment window, watching the smoke gather around the train as it pushed off from the station. He clutched at the wand just below his new robes- which, when closely inspected, consisted of a small hole on the side and a tear at the bottom, which made Riddle freeze up every time he thought about it- and gave a slight quirk of the lips at what was to come. Conciously, he knew that the magic was just within his reach, but there was a bubbling feeling in his chest that made it seem intangible, which was as foreign as the slick wood beneath his palm and pristine metal racks just above his head. He stared at the pastures that flew past the window. Only so long until he'd get rid of the feeling forever. "This is where you belong, don't forget."

Harry Potter was eleven years old when an old, droopy hat was placed precariously over his head and covered the sight of more people staring at him than he'd ever seen in his life. The brief respite was a relief, until the sorting hat boomed in his head. "Slytherin", it whispered to him, and something in him shook. And suddenly he remembered the quips Hagrid and Ron had made, and found himself begging the hat for anything but Slytherin. Freak and evil weren't exactly synonymous, but if they both meant a persistent loneliness and a loss of the kindness he'd been faced with in the wizarding world, he didn't want either. The hat grumbled and moaned but all the same shouted "Gryffindor!" to the awaiting crowd. When the hat was lifted from his head and his face was no longer obstructed, he was surrounded with thunderous applause that threatened to shake his heart from his core, and the swelling feeling inside of him seemed to agree with the crowd. Sitting down, Harry glanced up to the main table and made eye contact with Dumbledore. The old man grinned. 

Tom Riddle was eleven years old when he stepped carefully up the marble steps to the dirty hat in the professor's hands and tried to keep his faced schooled into something unreadable. His shaking hands were a dead giveaway, and when he sat down, he tucked them underneath him. The hat echoed in his head and it set Tom on edge as the hat rambled about where to place Tom. "Only one house seems the place for you" and Tom knew from that instant what it is was and something quivered in him, something right, something desperate to prove himself. The hat cried out "Slytherin!" and Tom was met with silence as the hat was pulled off his head. He strolled in silence to the table and was confronted with more silence by his housemates. Tom glanced over towards the Auburn professor as he settled at his empty corner of the table. The old man grimaced. 

Harry Potter was twelve years old when his ability to speak to snakes was exposed. The world seemed to stop beneath him as his peers stared at him, as if they had never seen him in their lives, as if he had grown two heads or turned into nearly headless Nick. Suddenly, he was hated more than revered, and the whispers that followed him down the hallways seemed to carry into every aspect of his life. They claimed he was the heir of Slytherin, that he had opened the chamber of secrets. The ability had turned sour with a single interaction- the garden snakes and the snake he had met in the zoo had been so kind, but the memories were tinged with a particular green that Harry had learned to associate with evil. 

Tom Riddle was twelve years old when a few of the other Slytherins had caught him whispering to a snake on the grounds. Fascination had crept up their faces, and for once Tom interacted with his peers in a way that hadn't been discouraging. They spoke of the chamber of secrets, of the mysterious creature- that was obviously a snake, if their enthusiasm was anything to go by- that would one day be released to kill all the muggleborns in the school, that it could only be opened by the heir of Slytherin. It was a chance being dangled in front of his face, and he grasped at it with all he could, casually remarking on an interesting connection in his family, and it was like watching something unlock in front of his face. Maybe he could finally make a legacy for his dead wizard father. 

Harry Potter was thirteen years old when he caught a glimpse at what family could be. The ragged appearance of his godfather couldn't hide the warmth that glowed in his eyes. It was like coming to Hogwarts all over again and the feeling of belonging filled every inch of him. It cried out for this love that he'd been told he'd never have and for a moment it seemed as if it was within his grasp. Then, as if the world had been playing a cruel joke and only just torn off the blindfold, his godfather was ripped away from him, even if temporary. It surely felt like a joke, the moment he stepped back on the Dursley's manicured front lawn, but as he strode through the doorway and back into his childhood role, he found that he didn't find it humorous at all. 

Tom Riddle was thirteen years old when he tore through the library searching for a hint of his family. His father had to be within the pages of these old textbooks somewhere, as there was no doubt he had been pureblood in origin. All the desperation that had festered in him throughout his lifetime bubbled to the top, expressed through ripped edges of pages and books tossed haphazardly back onto the table. Each disappointment felt like a harrowing plot to keep him from his past. As he stared down at the blurred words alight by the candle, the blame seemed to shift towards a certain man with auburn hair and a glance that pierced you through the soul. 

Harry Potter was fifteen years old when he watched his godfather die in front of him. The descent into the silky fabric of the void seemed to happen in a matter of seconds, leaving no time for goodbyes or recognition or fear. Sirius was there one second, and in the next he was gone, and there was no time to mourn, only time to confront what was left of the Death Eaters. The world faded around Harry and it was like the air had been sucked from his lungs, like everything he'd owned crumbled in his hands. And then Voldemort was in his head and there was no room to breathe, only to fight, which is what Harry had been doing his whole life. He writhed and kicked until he could feel the cold tile under his cheek and Dumbledore's stare on his back. His hands shook as he stood up and it felt as if his brain was seared with something wrong. It was burned into his eyelids and throat and ears, and with it came a shift in his view that demanded some sort of vengeance- whatever the cost. 

Tom Riddle was fifteen years old when he stared down at the pale white body of the unfortunate girl who had found herself on the receiving end of the basilisk's glare. The sight was fascinating and paralyzing all at once, all centered around the emptiness in the girl's grey eyes. They held none of the life they had moments before, when she had sobbed her heart out from the disgusting bathroom stall. It had flickered out in such an insignificant manner, and Tom vowed in that moment he would never find himself the same way. He could not allow the extinguishment of who he was, of the power he held, and he would do what it would take to uphold himself. He allowed himself to linger in the moment a second longer, dark eyes dragging along the scene with a clinical air, before slipping out of the bathroom without a trace, as if he had never entered the scene and carved his mark in the school. The image stayed with him, and reminded him of his resolution: Voldemort would never embrace death. 

Harry Potter was sixteen years old when his idol since he was eleven was slaughtered beneath the wand of his ally. The exhaustion that had draped over him after his and Dumbledore's excursion for the horcrux had caused his senses to blur, but there was no mistaking the piercing flash of neon green that permeated throughout every corner of the office. The headmaster's expression froze. His body flew backwards out the window and disappeared within an instant, a rag doll to the force of the wind. Harry felt as if the wind had hit him, too, and he stood frozen in denial. It could not have happened, it should not have happened. In the blink of an eye, Harry was bolting from his position under the stairs, stunning a Death Eater without mercy, as he clambered towards where either Snape would be or Dumbledore would be. There was no difference anymore. There would be a war no matter what, death and vengeance no matter what, and Harry found himself longing for both. Longing for something to avenge the wrongs that had been done to him, that could eradicate what had been done to everyone he knew. A closing. 

Voldemort was sixteen years old when he held his wand to the head of his mudblood father, the man who he had rested his belief on for years. He proved to be nothing more than a simpering muggle, hardly fit to be a human, much less a wizard of any capacity. It was easy to extinguish him, in that moment of anger and disappointment. He had known the truth for a while, but a insignificant part of him had held a flicker of disbelief that his past was so tainted with filth like a muggle father who hadn't even had the strength to raise a son. The three of them- Tom Riddle, his father, and his mother- were dead in an second, and it felt like the closing of a chapter as he stepped out of the mansion and thunder clapped behind him. The ring clasped on his finger reminded him of the strides he had taken and it felt like progress. An opening. 

Harry Potter was seventeen years old when he stared down the horcrux that held a portion of Voldemort's soul. He and Ron were gathered around the contraption, ready to eradicate the demon that had haunted and fractured their tight knit group for weeks on end. It lapped at the edges of their sanity and took a sadistic satisfaction in the group's undoing, but they would no longer stand it. Ron stood poised with the sword as Harry approached the locket with footsteps that hardly disturbed the forest floor below. On the count of three, he hissed, and the monster that was Voldemort's soul unleashed it's last defenses, tearing into Ron's weaknesses through the fear that Harry couldn't differentiate from the locket's and their own. Harry screamed at Ron to stab it, to destroy it once and for all, and before Harry took the sword into his own hands, Ron swung forward with a force previously unseen. The locket shattered, along with it the illusion of Harry and Hermione. The forest seemed to settle without the terrifying aura of the soul. The horcrux was destroyed.

Voldemort was seventeen years old when his soul was torn into half for the second time. The buildup for this horcrux had been greater than his previous one, as splitting one's soul a second time took a greater amount of precision than the first time. The soul was more volatile the second time around. At least, that was the theory he had been developing. The information on the subject was disappointingly sparse, but he had enough confidence in his abilities that believed his theory to be true- both in that the soul was more sensitive, and that it was still possible to split the soul more than once. The signet ring that lay on the table before him was his second subject, and would be his second success. Voldemort carefully lay out the necessary spells and spoke in tones so soft that they dare not wake the castle around him. The process was quick, but not painless. He grit his teeth and slumped against the table, sweating as his body burned from the inside out, setting each and every inch of him on fire before dousing him in a chill that left him paralyzed on the table. Within minutes of the processes end, Voldemort was back on his feet, with the ring on his finger holding more than just the last remaining symbol of Salazar Slytherin. Pain was necessary, a means to an end. The horcrux had been created. 

Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort stood at opposite ends of the clearing, ready to fulfill the destiny that had been whispered in the shadows around them since their births. The lamb for slaughter, the freak and the child, born in the wake of revolution and ready to die in it too; the mistake of magic, the monster and the murderer, forgotten in the depths of power and left to simmer in it's shackles. The world seemed to turn around them for decades until this moment, where time had stopped. The chess board they had existed on frozen in a moment, where the winning party knew their move and only had to implement it. Both stood, pawns and knights forgotten, teetering on the edge of greatness, of immortality forged in either honor or fear. They existed on either side of a coin, similarities haunting each movement they made, each decision forged in anger or apathy. The difference between the two was only seen in a moment of desperation, on the tail end of a war predestined to appear. As Harry trudged through the pitch black dirt and closer to his battle's end, death wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, familiar and friendly, a protector for those brave enough to approach him of their own volition. This is was Harry had that Voldemort never would- a handshake with bravery, a smile with life, an acquaintance in fear, a friend in death. Relationships forged in kindness, forgiveness, and love. The difference between the two was the difference between making and becoming a friend. 

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle both experienced death, and only one made it out alive. The man destined for death emerging victorious against the man who fought so long against it. The choices that each made in life became them in their deaths. However, it was not love that created their identities. Two paths that converged sooner than most, split by the one similarity that defined their lives since their birth- manipulation.


End file.
